Pirates of the Caribbean: The Feline of Forever
by Siniver
Summary: Chapter 6 up! When a routine visit turns into a new journey, Jack if quite happy. However, when he learns that the key is a seven year old girl, his journey is made much more difficult. Chapter 7 up!
1. Chapter 1

The shop was quiet and empty. It wasn't very big or very extravagant. In fact, it was nothing compared to a few of the others that lay nearby. The gentle glow of candles that decorated the poorly painted walls sent shadows across the floor. The windows held layers of mildew in their corners and cobwebs decorated the very corners of the shop. A worn table of red oak rested near the left wall and the counter was directly in front of any who entered. Shelves hung from the wall behind the counter, holding buns and bread. The scent of freshly baked dough filled the shop and the area around it. This would, without a doubt, lure people into its depths.  
  
A chubby man wandered out from the pantry that rested to the right of the counter. In his arms was a tray of buns, fresh from the oven! He was humming quietly, shaking his large bottom as he moved. He deposited the tray gently on the table and waved the towel, which rested in his hand, gently over them to brush the steam aside. After inhaling their scent, he dusted his hands and wandered behind the counter once again. He was rather short and his hands were large. It was a wonder he could do such delicate work with his bone structure. His apron was smudged with chocolate, flour and sugar and looked as if he'd never taken it off. His curly black hair was lost beneath a white hat and he had a moustache that suited his face . . . a face that screamed 'Wake up the sleeping giant, and you'll be sorry!'  
  
Though it was a small shop, there were places to hide. The shadows served the purpose well enough and were usually the place of choice for the young girl that occupied them. She was clad in a pair of black pants, torn at the knees and a simple shirt of creamed white. An olive trench coat, much to large for a someone her age, was complete with mustard yellow toggles and red stitching and covered her up in a attempt to protect her against the cold atmosphere. Blonde hair, thin and tangled, hung around her pale, smudged features like a curtain. Her eyes, like the bright blue sky on a handsome day, peered anxiously at her target and her fingers, small and numb, held a stolen pirates hat that suited her childish persona perfectly. Her name was Abigail . . . Abigail Ocean.  
  
There was a gentle chime that caught the attention of both man and child. The chubby chef whirled around with a big, fake smile and watched the small family slither through the doors. There was a thin woman with high cheekbones and a rather long nose. She was, however, dressed to impress and held a small change purse at her stomach. Her hair was done up in a tight bun that accounted for her high face and small ears. She gave a huff and stepped inside, allowing the two young boys to tumble inside after her. Both were no older then five and looked identical. They were fighting mercilessly over a coin they had found on the ground. They were well dressed, but dirty from their rumbling and tumbling. Both had flaming red hair and their boyish faces were lost underneath their freckles.  
  
'Michael - Edward!'  
  
Her intentions were obvious. She reached down and tugged at one of their shirt collars in hopes of breaking them up. It worked - for a moment. However, when the lady turned her back, they dove at each other and continued their confrontation. The lady growled, but became preoccupied as the chef came up to the counter and leaned on it, waiting for her to approach. She stepped over her children and offered the chubby man a worn smile. When she spoke, each word dripped with an Irish tone and her eyes scrunched up oddly.  
  
'A dozen freshly baked loaves, if you have them and perhaps a couple pastries for my handsome boys.'  
  
She glanced over her skinny shoulder. Instead of smiling, she cringed a bit and quickly returned her attention to the chef, who was already taking a pair of pastries from the shelf. With his free hand, he laid a cloth on the counter and gently deposited the food. Once he had the buns and pastries organized to his liking, he wrapped it gently and held his plump hand out for her money. As they exchanged money and food, the boys caught sight of something. Their battle was halted and they both started to squint into the shadows.  
  
'What the devil is that?'  
  
As they stalked closer, Abigail narrowed her eyes and that pink tongue dashed past her dry lips and left a trail of moisture behind before it dashed back into her mouth. She pondered a plot on how to get the best of these terrible twins before her. It wasn't until they stopped, hardly inches from her position, that she snatched a floating idea and put it into action. It wasn't much, but it worked. She began to growl, much like an angry wolf and back up into the shadows so they wouldn't see her. The boys passed nervous glances and quickly recoiled and clung to their mother, who looked down at them with surprise. She gathered her parcel of buns and smiled to the chef, who nodded his head in dismiss.  
  
'Come along boys! Lots to do and so little time to do it.'  
  
The boys gazed wearily into the shadows as they passed them and stumbled in their desperation to cling to their mother. When they finally reached the door and squeezed out, they climbed into a carriage and disappeared. 


	2. Chapter 2

The chubby chef went back to work, vanishing into the pantry once again to gather some material. The stove lay open and ready for the next batch of dough and sent warmth over the shop. Abigail squinted through the darkening shadows and caught sight of the small, leather pouch that was her goal to grab. She crept from the darkness after making sure the chef was occupied, and began to tiptoe towards the counter. The chef started to hum again, a past time that was growing on Abigail's nerves. She bit her tongue and squinted her eyes in concentration. As she came to the counter, she pushed herself up and reached those tiny, cool fingers outward. They stretched and strained towards the pouch, craving to pull it into their grasp. But her intentions were shattered when the chef poked his head of the pantry and checked his shop, almost making sure no one was around. Her slender figure ducked down instantly. She held her breath, staring quietly at a spot on the dusty floor. When he recoiled and went back to his business, she cautiously stood up and peered after him. Hoping he wouldn't do that again, Abigail slid to the side of the shop and grabbed a stool. It was rather broken and worn from constant use, but it would do for its purpose. She quickly dashed to the counter front and set the piece of wood down. She stepped out and steadied herself. Eyes, anxious and craving, settled on the pouch which sat mere inches from her now.Fingers, slow and cautious, began to snake out for it and once she grabbed it, she felt her heart sink into her stomach with relief. Joy lasted only a moment, however, because a booming voice caught her off guard.  
  
'YOU!'  
  
The voice was filled with such anger and frustration. He knew who she was, and his eyes were bulging from his reddening face. The sudden puff of flour as it exploded on the ground and the tumble of tray pieces as he threw his hands forward, caused Abigail to wince.  
  
'Give that BACK!'  
  
Abigail jumped from the wobbly stool and began to dash towards the door. She was, however, beckoned to stop by the table at her right. With a second of consideration, she picked out a mighty fine piece of pastry and continued her dash to the door, shoving both pouch and pastry into her pockets. When she finally did reach the door, her exit was halted when she smacked into a pair of legs and tumbled backwards. Frowning and holding her forehead gently, she looked upwards with a squint. The chef hung over her, hands on his hips, and angry eyes peering down from that purple face. Suddenly, he reached forward and with one hand, he lifted Abigail from the ground.  
  
'To the gallows with you, you filthy, mangy, thieving animal!'  
  
Her eyes narrowed a bit and she began to pout, glaring up at him. It was, however, a scheme. Without a warning, she brought her boot into his shin with as much force as the seven year old could muster. Like a wounded bear, he released a cry and the young girl hit the floor. Though the force of the impact did make her cringe, she pushed herself up and ran to the door, intent on dealing with pain afterwards. He chubby chef had trouble getting up, his face red and sweaty with frustration. When he did finally get up, however, the child had vanished. He yelled, anger bubbling in his veins. He began to fumble with the keys of the shop as he went out the door. He turned around and locked it tightly behind him before he began to charge after her. His large body mass bumped and knocked into innocent citizens in his desperation to catch her. He growled, shoving an old man into a wagon filled with fruit.  
  
'Out of my way! Move!'  
  
As the street was cleared, his journey became easier. He gained a determined snicker and barged through a group of chickens that pecked contently at the cobblestone. He ran fast, for a man his size.  
  
Abigail was beginning to panic, but hadn't totally lost hope. Those baby blues slid over her shoulder and she frowned suddenly at his closeness. She brought those slender digits up and rested them gently on her hat, which threatened to blow from her head. Once she was certain all was secure, she dove under a horse and wagon, causing the steed to rise on its hind legs and swing its hooves in shock. A moment later, she turned around to watch the outcome of her little trick. The chef had been intercepted by the sudden movement of the horse and tumbled backwards a bit. He glared at her from the other side of the wagon and snarled. Abigail smiled, pulled her hat from her head and rested it gently against her chest before bowing curtly and dashing down the street again. 


	3. Chapter 3

After a good minute of running, she slowed down. She knew it was only a matter of time before the chef started chasing her again and so she began to stalk out a hiding spot. She eyed a shop that rested in front of her and a shop that rested to her right. She wet her lips in thought and eyed them both. After a moment of careful consideration, she chose the shop to her right. Without a glance over her shoulder, she dashed to the door and pushed it open with a creak.  
  
It was dark and dank inside. Dust, illuminated by the moonlight that soaked through the windows, hovered in the air. Swords, daggers, tools and other weapons hung from a metal rack and a dozing donkey rested quietly in a harness. Worn tables were laced with countless tools and an anvil lay close to a large forge. A broken wagon, obviously used to carry shipments of material, was to her right and a bag of livestock feed lay to her left. She hung uncertainly in the doorway, arms resting numbly at her sides. She began to descend the few stairs that lay before her and when she reached the floor, scattered with bits of straw and pieces of metal, she whirled around at a sudden snort. Eyes, wide with anxiety, searched for a moment. Then she saw him . . . An old, plump man lay sprawled on a chair. He was dirty and greasy and held an empty bottle tightly in his grasp. He snorted again and lolled his head to the other shoulder. Abigail bit her lip and slowly began to approach him. As she got closer, his stench began to soak into her nostrils and she scrunched her face up in disgust. Slipping away from the sleeping man, she suddenly found herself oddly drawn to the rafters above her. She glanced at the door for a moment and thought about the chef . . . He'd be here soon. Without another thought or hesitation, she crawled to the window and used the sill to push herself up. She reached upward and grabbed a piece of rope that hung down from the ceiling. After winding her tiny fingers into its rough bind, she tugged herself up and crawled onto the wooden rafter. She steadied herself and draped the worn rope over the rafter for a quick escape. With much caution, she started to walk along them, arms at her side for balance. She managed to find a spot not far from the rope and she sat down . . . Then she waited.  
  
-----  
  
When the rays of moonlight that soaked into the shop through the door were blocked and the shuffle of feet were heard, she turned her attention away from the feather on her hat and gazed down to the floor below. She waited patiently for the culprit to show himself and nearly fell from the rafters in her strain to see whom it was. Then . . . The door opened.  
  
For a moment, no one entered. She squinted at the sudden flood of moonlight that dashed into the shop and shifted gently over the rafters. She held her breath and waited. Suddenly, a lean figure slithered inside and the door was shut behind him. A black tunic covered his body and hid the clothing beneath, however, a pair of brown pants could be seen and his black boots were as clear as day. His hair, a dark chestnut in colour, was done up in a ponytail at his neck and his dark eyes peered shifted over the paper bag in his arms. He didn't bother greeting the donkey, which appeared to have fallen asleep on its feet or the drunken man in the corner, who snorted so suddenly and lolled his head again. He stalked straight to the table and relieved himself of the heavy bag. Moments later, he was emptying the contents in front of him.  
  
Abigail crawled quietly across the rafters for a better look at what he was doing. She furrowed her brows gently and gained a thoughtful frown. Suddenly, her eyes grew wide and she held her breath. She could feel it . . . It was slipping . . . sliding from the depths of her coat . . . She peered down at her pocket and confirmed her fear with wide eyes - the bun was falling out of her pocket! She shifted on the board and reached her hand out, trying to grasp it. With a squint of anxiety, she swung at it and nearly fell off the rafter. Unfortunately, when she regained her balance by grabbing the board - It fell.  
  
It was only a thump. The bun hit the dusty ground and rolled a bit, stopping at the young mans feet. He looked up rather suddenly and narrowed his eyes. With a swift movement, he turned himself around and looked around the shop. With a curious 'Hmmm. . . ' He brought his hand up behind his head and scratched at his neck. Suddenly, he saw it. Quirking a brow, he bent down and picked up the piece of baked dough and regarded it curiously. He began to stalk towards the broken wagon, turning the piece of bread gently in his hand - then he stopped.  
  
Abigail held her breath and stared down at the man below. Then her foot slipped. Her eyes grew wide and she swung her arms up to grab the rafter her body had just left. Fear swamped her stomach and her heart went into her throat. It was when he looked up, that she hit him. Literally.  
  
With the advantage of his quick reflexes, he caught her clumsily and fell down to the floor. Both grunted at the impact and caused a cloud of dust and straw to rush away from them. Abigail, stuck with shock and fear, began to scramble away from the young man who slowly got to his feet. He shook his head, holding his temple gently as he looked at her, one eye squinting with pain.  
  
'What are you doing in here?'  
  
She kept quiet, her large eyes shifting quietly over his tall figure as she backed into the shadows near the door.  
  
'You don't have to be afraid . . . My name is Will. What's your name?'  
  
She eyed him quietly, her figure pressed up against the cool texture of the moon-soaked wall. She saw her hat resting on the floor where she had fallen and craved to go get it . . .  
  
Will bent down and picked up the hat, which he promptly dusted off. Then, stretching to his full-height once again, he walked over to her and kneeled down. Abigail held her hand out for her hat, which he deposited gently in her hands. She quickly brought it to her chest and hugged it. Suddenly, she narrowed her eyes. Will raised his own at her sudden change in attitude but had no time to do anything. She rushed forward and with a quick nudge into his kneeling figure, he lost balance and fell onto his behind with a grunt.  
  
Abigail dashed towards the door, shoving her hat gently on her head. But she was halted. The door handle began to shake and when it wouldn't open, the door shook harshly from the force of a fist. William glanced at Abigail quickly before he stood up and brushed at his pants.  
  
Knock - Knock - Knock! The door swung open and smashed into the wall from the force of the foot that kicked it. Though the moonlight intermingled with the massive figure, Abigail knew who it was. Her eyes grew wide and her lips parted as a sudden gasp was stuck in her throat. The chef stormed in and his angry eyes whirled around the dusty shop. It took only a fraction of a second for him to catch sight of the culprit and with his massive hands; he grabbed Abigail by the collar of her coat and lifted her from the ground. His laugh was booming and victorious as he shook her tiny figure.  
  
'You filthy scallywag!'  
  
Abigail narrowed her eyes and struggled, trying to unhinge his grip.  
  
'Let go of me!'  
  
The chef brought one hand away from her while maintaining a powerful hold. The hand, which he had just freed from work, suddenly rose up above his head and his intentions were no secret . . . So William stepped in.  
  
'You will release her.'  
  
The chef quirked a brow and halted in mid-movement. His hand froze only inches from her pale, scrunched up face and he snorted.  
  
'What business is it to you then, ay? This rat has probably got your money shoved in her pockets too . . .I'll do's us both a favour!'  
  
He brought his hand up again and made to bring it down, but suddenly clink of metal as it was drawn from a holder caught his attention. The chubby chef raised his angry eyes in Williams's direction and his mouth hung open a bit. He swallowed and suddenly, Abigail fell to the floor. When she scrambled away and looked up, she saw William holding a sword. He pointed it swiftly at the chef's throat and narrowed his eyes. The chef began to stutter needlessly.  
  
'Oy, wait a minute! Don't go doing anything harsh now. Ye see that lass? She stole me money! I only be wanting it back . . . '  
  
William kept his sword tightly pressed on the chubby man, who raised his hands up in defeat. William took a moment to glance at Abigail, who huddled near the broken wagon, clutching her hands together quietly. He became rather frustrated and indecisive. Silence lingered, aside from the heavy breathing of the chef. Suddenly, William lowered his sword and sighed, tossing it aside.  
  
'Take your money and leave.'  
  
The chef hovered uncertainly on the spot, eyeing William quietly. When he was certain that the sword was staying on the ground, he dashed towards Abigail with his massive hands. Abigail's eyes shot wide and she dashed away from him. The chef growled impatiently and grabbed her by her tiny wrist. Caught and obviously helpless, she fell to the floor. William, having trouble watching all of this, decided to step in again.  
  
'Hold on -'  
  
William took a step forward and picked Abigail up and away from the chef. She felt a sudden urge to kick, bite and run - but she stayed quiet. William set her down and tugged up his pant legs before kneeling down in front of her. He held his hand out, palm-side up and waited.  
  
Abigail watched him with hesitation and finally, ready to be done with the chef, drew the small pouch of pounds from her pocket and deposited it into his grasp. He closed his fingers around the material and pushed himself up. Without a warning, he tossed it to the chef and nodded quietly.  
  
'You have what you came for, now go.'  
  
The chef suddenly gained a sly grin and he began a sinister chuckle as he slid through the doors. William turned to Abigail, but any interaction was cut short by a shout outside the door.  
  
'Oh, and by the way - the kings soldiers are on their way.' 


	4. Chapter 4

Hey Everyone! :)  
  
Last chapter till after Christmas . . . If I get it done tonight, however, I may post it! Thanks for the reviews and keep reading . . . Glad to know my writing is appreciated. : P  
  
William stared at the open doorway, eyes shifting in thought. He became rather indecisive once again and glanced down Abigail, who had an expression of the utmost fear and anxiety. William thought hard and quick, considering all possible pathways and their outcomes. Finally, when Abigail began her quick dash towards the door, he ran up ahead of her and closed it tightly before she could get out.  
  
Abigail threw herself at the handle and reached up for it desperately, hands fumbling with the long board that William brought down to lock it. She tried to grab any loose board or find a simple hole to rip apart, but failed miserably. At last, she turned to William who lingered behind her and frowned.  
  
'Open the door!'  
  
William frowned, obviously apprehensive about the pathway he had chosen. He could hardly bare to look at the desperate, scrawny child before him. But - Perhaps - a day in the gallows would do her some good . . .Besides, he couldn't have her here when Jack came around the next day.  
  
Her eyes grew heavy and began to sting miserably with tears. She held them back, glaring at William for a long, silent moment. But the silence was shattered with the sound of half-a-dozen feet trampling the cobblestone ground outside. There was a formal knock on the outside of the door and Abigail spun around, staring feverishly at the door and the shadows outside. William sighed, closed his eyes and reached forward, lifting the board and allowing the soldiers to come inside. Four soldiers clad in those familiar red uniforms and holding their bayonets over their shoulders, stormed inside. Abigail suddenly turned away from them and began to dash deeper into the blacksmith shop. The donkey, the wagon, the drunken man for bloody sakes! They all posed as a hiding spot and she picked the road less traveled, the drunken man! She came up to him and took a hold of his arm and began to shake him, trying to wake him up. Mr. Brown, as he was so often called, snorted and lolled his head to the opposite shoulder. But she was to late. Her body was lifted from the ground and she was sucked back towards the entrance of the shop. With a shout, she began to struggle like mouse in the mouth of a cat. The soldiers were powerful, no doubt, but had trouble grasping her squirming body.  
  
William watched them take her away and hung quietly at the doorway until they had started walking down the street. His heart began to ache with guilt and he learned his temple against the corner of the doorframe. With a nod, trying to convince himself of doing the right thing, he slid back inside and closed the door.  
  
---------  
  
The morning came quickly and William had hardly gained a moment of shut- eye. He wasn't used to sleeping in the shop. After all, it was nothing compared to the luxury he and his wife were now accustomed to. He felt rather guilty for leaving it all on her absence, but sometimes it felt nice to return to how things used to be. He spent most of his morning organizing the shop for Mr. Brown. He was wandering around aimlessly, pointing and jabbing at his old co-worker. William hardly noticed however, as he was preoccupied with thoughts of the past evening.  
  
'Mr. Brown, I've put a bag of - Mr. Brown?'  
  
The man was chugging back another bottle and burped suddenly, gazing suspiciously at William. With a simple shrug, he stalked away and grabbed his hat from the table. He had a place to be and he wasn't about to be late. Nodding quickly to the old man, who grumbled at him and went to work, he closed the door and began the short journey down the cobblestone street of Port Royal.  
  
- - - -  
  
The gallows, however, we not as peaceful as the freedoms of Port Royal. They were dark, lit only by the torches that hung from the walls. Damp and dirty, they provided no comfort whatsoever. A few benches waited nicely against the walls, opposite the cells that held the prisoners and a few were stuffed inside for mock design. Each cell held a few men, clad in only dirty rags and greasy hair. Their teeth were rotting from their mouths and they were nothing but skin and bones. They had taken an interest in hanging around the bars of her cell, which connected to their own. They made outrageous comments and snickered after each one. Poor Abigail, who hung quietly near the bench, stared at them in silence. She had been robbed of her tunic, which hung on the wall outside the cell with her beloved hat.  
  
'A piece of meat.Oy, that'd get the dog! Come' ere, lassie!'  
  
Abigail gazed wearily from the group of prisoners in the other cell and towards the smoke coloured canine that hung in the hallway of the gallows. The dog, holding a ring of keys tightly in his jaws, stared at Abigail quietly. She found herself plotting suddenly, her eyes shifting from the bars, to the door, to the lock, to the keys . . . Ignoring the prisoners, who fell silent as her sudden movements, she slid to the front of her cell and reached her hand out through the bars. She allowed it to hang there, pale and warm against the coolness of the gallows. The dog, obviously starving, whimpered for a moment and began to slither towards her. The other men, staring with wide eyes, all dashed to the front of their own cells and held their arms out. They shook them harshly and whistled, murmured and shouted for the dog. Now, overwhelmed by all the offers of human flesh, the dog began to back away. Abigail, eyes suddenly wide at the canines reluctance, frowned miserably. The dog dashed down the stairs and out of sight.  
  
The prisoners, obviously blind to the dog's disappearance, continued to wave their arms around in the unlikely case of his return. Though it diverted their attention away from her, it was rather annoying. She slithered back to the bench of her cell and sat down. Thoughts, now stuck on escaping, slithered momentarily back to the blacksmith shop and the man she had met. She frowned, lowering her eyes to the dirty, straw-kissed floor and curled up on the bench - it'd be a long day. 


	5. Chapter 5

Merry Christmas! Hope you all got lots of gifts and hugs n'stuff! Enjoy the chapter . . . (  
  
William came to the docks of Port Royal and stared quietly out to sea. Many thoughts plagued his mind. These thoughts, based mainly on recent events, were consuming his conscience. Elizabeth, his dear wife, was on a long-term holiday with her father, visiting distant relatives in London. He was invited, no doubt, but declined respectively. Even today, he felt slightly awkward around her family. He missed her terribly and pondered her well being over and over again . . .  
  
Another thought, though not as powerful as the rest, was the blacksmith shop. He enjoyed working there, despite his residence in the governor's manor. His wife, Elizabeth had suggested they move to London and acquire their own house. He had smiled and approved of her suggestion, but silently regretted it afterward. After all, Port Royal held a soft spot in his heart. He also knew if he were to leave, that he'd be forced to give up his blacksmith shop. He wasn't prepared for that - not yet.  
  
Finally, the young girl was on his mind. He felt guilty for sending her away . . . She hadn't even witnessed a dozen winters yet and she was locked in the depths of the gallows. He frowned suddenly, brows knotting together. However, thoughts were shattered by a voice in front of him. He looked up, dark eyes shifting over the small boat that had only just bumped up to the dock. He couldn't hold back a smirk.  
  
'Dare I say, Mr. Turner, that you were day-dreaming?'  
  
It was Jack. Tall and thinner then usual, he stood gracefully in his boat, using the oar for balance. He hadn't changed . . . His hat sat nicely on his head, covering up the red bandanna that wrapped in many layers around his rat-nest of brown hair. Beads adorned his sun-crisp features and hung in rat-tails that dangled from his goatee. His dark trench coat hung around his figure and covered the creamy coloured shirt underneath. Heavy cuffs finished off the sleeves of his coat and he wore new pants, brown, like the old ones. He smiled and tilted his head, awaiting Williams' answer.  
  
'I was just thinking, Jack.'  
  
William leaned forward and offered Jack his hand. The captain, depositing his oar into the boat and grabbing a worn yellow rope, took Will's hand and pulled himself up on the dock. 'A dangerous pastime! But very helpful at times, I will admit.' Jack began to wrap the rope around the post and when he finished, he turned to William. When he began to speak, his hands flew up and began to move in the most awkward ways.  
  
'How was the wedding? Very disappointed, might I add, that I did not merit an invitation . . .'  
  
Jack gained an expression of mock sadness, and raised his brows suddenly, almost expecting an explanation from William, who had quickly diverted his eyes.  
  
'It was beautiful, Jack. I wish you could have been there . . .'  
  
Jack shrugged and stalked past Mr. Turner, who began to follow close behind. He smiled, staring into the busy village ahead of them. After a moment of lingering silence and hovering hand-movements, he turned around to face Will, who halted at his sudden whip-around.  
  
'Just don't let it happen again, Savvy?'  
  
William gave a nod, a truthful nod, and walked along with Jack. Both of them made their way up the docks and towards the tavern. This was, of course, Jack's choice. William had suggested the blacksmith shop, where their visit would go unnoticed, but Jack wasn't worried and it was obvious.  
  
-------  
  
The tavern was very busy. Jack, rather disappointed at its quiet, formal layout, took it upon himself to frown the whole time. He stalked towards a table, where William sat waiting. He set two mugs of rum on the table and took himself a seat opposite him.  
  
'This is defiantly not Tortuga, I'll give ye that mate . . . '  
  
Will smiled and folded his arms over the tabletop, gazing at Jack quietly. Jack, only just realising William's eyes on him, pulled the mug, now half- empty, away from his mouth. Quirking a dark brow, he looked away almost uncomfortably away from Mr. Turner and took another sip of drink. William sighed and muttered a few words, gazing uncertainly at his own drink. When he spoke, Jack returned his eyes to him.  
  
'We should not linger here to long, Jack. The commodore has a ship out searching for you as we speak.'  
  
Jack, obviously amused by all of this, set his empty mug on the table and folded his own arms over the surface.  
  
'That bloody Norrington can't stop me from enjoying a bit of rum!'  
  
They were quiet after that and their conversations were based mainly on the Pearl and all its happenings. Jack grew rather drunk near the end of their visit, breaking into song and waving his arms and fingers around at every man and woman inside the tavern. He would laugh and ask Will rather outrageous questions. William, not far off from being drunk himself, was laughing at all this, but kept his sense. As the evening rolled around, William had began the process of getting Jack away from the rum. This, however, was a large mistake on Williams' part.  
  
'You don't know what you're doing - do ye mate? I wouldn't want to be crossing paths with a pirate and his rum . .' Jack mumbled a few words and held his mug, his fourteenth to be exact, tightly in his arms and clung to his chair. He smirked suddenly and began to shout across the tavern.  
  
'Swab the decks! Hoist the sails . . . William, you scallywag, fetch me my hat - '  
  
Will, now thoroughly flabbergasted as to how he'd get the captain from the tavern, eyed those gathered. The sudden chime of the door and the person who slid inside shattered his train of thought, however. William turned himself around and squinted past a dozen men who lingered near the door . . . Through the mass of stinking drunks, he saw it - a blue coat! His eyes grew wide and he spun around to face Jack.  
  
'Jack, it's time to go!'  
  
Jack, furrowing his brows in confusion, glared at William. He purposely sunk his weight into the chair to make Williams job a hundred times worst.  
  
'You don't want to be doing that, mate.'  
  
Will, now rather frustrated and growing angry, spoke through his teeth.  
  
'Actually, I do -'  
  
Will got an idea. Gazing momentarily towards the door, he spun to Jack and jerked his beloved hat from his head. Jack, now hatless, raised his brows and gazed from the mug of rum to his hat, which dangled in Williams' grasp. Finally, he set the mug down with hesitation and reached for his hat. William, now wandering towards the door, bumped abruptly into someone. When he turned around, his heart sunk into his stomach. It was Norrington. His hands clasped behind his back and his hair done up beneath his hat, he stared at William with a rather confused expression. Suddenly, he caught sight of the hat in Will's hand. Furrowing his own brows, he spoke, only to cut himself off.  
  
'Mr. Turner - '  
  
He saw Jack. His expression, having once been confused and curious, switched suddenly to fury and shock. He opened his mouth, obviously meaning to say something, but nothing came out. He raised a finger and pointed it at Jack. Finally, he managed a stern shout.  
  
' Gillette!' 


	6. Chapter 6

Short Chapter . . . Sorry! .  
  
'Mr. Turner - '  
  
He saw Jack. His expression, having once been confused and curious, switched suddenly to fury and shock. He opened his mouth, obviously meaning to say something, but nothing came out. He raised a finger and pointed it at Jack. Finally, he managed a stern shout.  
  
' Gillette!'  
  
He spun around and opened the door, re-shouting the name loudly. From around the corner, a tall, well-built man stuck his head out. He pulled himself away from a conversation he was having with some fellow soldiers and they instantly flocked around Norrington. Norrington, now wearing a smug expression of victory, hung in the doorway and motioned inside.  
  
'Sparrow, he's inside the tavern.'  
  
Will, now feeling rather helpless, let the hat fall to his side and Jack, who had appeared beside him, snatched it back and palmed it onto his head with a grumpy glare. He glanced up suddenly, catching sight of Norrington's men that now advanced on him, bayonets pointed as a threat. The captain, gazing momentarily at William and quickly to the soldiers, raised a brow and squinted suspiciously.  
  
'I thought -' Jack hiccupped and lost his composure, slurring the rest of his sentence. 'I thought I told you to swab the deck, mate.'  
  
A few of the soldiers, trying not to snicker, glanced at Norrington for orders. The Commodore advanced and narrowed his eyes on the captain, who suddenly recoiled from the closeness he imposed and hid behind Wills shoulder. He raised his fingers in mock defence and furrowed his brows quickly.  
  
' Well, well . . . Jack Sparrow - I guess thanks are in order for walking into our clutches so willingly . . .' Jack didn't say anything. He watched Norrington as if he were a madman and went to correct him. However, when he opened his mouth and uttered only half of his speech, Norrington cut him off.  
  
'Captain, Capt-'  
  
'Mr. Turner . . . ' The Commodore turned to William and held out his hand. William eyed it in silent guilt and shook it curtly. Norrington began to speak, ignoring Jacks eagerness to blabber aimlessly.  
  
' I was wrong about you . . . I had thought you lost to our cause. However, this deed proves you a better man than I first believed . . .'  
  
William opened his mouth to protest, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He shook the Commodores hand gently; thoughts of his dear wife soaked his mind and the fear of resting in the gallows until her return brought no comfort. So he sighed discreetly and gave a nod. The Commodore folded his hands behind his back and motioned a couple soldiers, free of weapons, towards Jack. The jingle of iron shackles caught the attention of everyone nearby, though most were to drunk to notice - including Jack.  
  
'Men, Mr. Sparrow has a temporary appointment with the gallows and a date with the noose - make sure he arrives.'  
  
Jack's wrists were pulled into the rusty shackles and he was jerked feverishly towards the tavern door. Jack laughed nervously for a moment, but didn't object. When the soldiers disappeared, Norrington approached William and rested a hand on his shoulder. William, staring after Jack with much guilt and frustration, gazed suddenly at the Commodore.  
  
' Mr. Turner - walk with me.' Norrington crossed the tavern floor and opened the door, holding it momentarily for William. Both men began a slow journey down the damp street, silence lingering between them.  
  
'How did you know about Sparrow?'  
  
William broke that uncomfortable silence, gazing quickly to Norrington. The Commodore had hardly changed . . . He was a bit taller and his shoulders had slouched a bit, but he walked the same - hands folded at the low of his back and head lowered in thought.  
  
'I didn't - I just happened to spot him. Actually . . . '  
  
William raised a brow and gazed curiously at the Commodore, who became silent with his words. The Commodore turned to Will after a few moments of scuffing their boots and detouring around stray chickens and spoke with silent jealousy, looking up from under his large hat.  
  
' You have a letter and I thought it important enough to deliver in person . . . '  
  
He tugged a pearly white envelope from his coat pocket and ran his thumb absently over a wrinkle in the corner. He read the name quietly and held it out for him, his face contorted with hesitation. William took it gently in his fingers and touched the crimson wax, melted on the back. He opened it swiftly and unfolded the yellow parchment, gazing at it with much concentration. He smiled suddenly, eyeing Norrington.  
  
' It's from Elizabeth . . .' Norrington forced a smile, hands folding behind his back gently.  
  
' Yes, important, don't you think?'  
  
William could only nod, his chest tingling with anxiety. He wanted to read it and began to, ignoring the Commodore for a moment. Norrington watched him and sighed, patting his shoulder gently.  
  
'Goodnight, Mr. Turner - Don't get into trouble.'  
  
William drowned out the rest of Norrington's departing speech and went to reading his letter, his eyes glazed over slightly.  
  
Dear Will,  
  
I hope this letter reaches you on swift wings. London is beautiful and hardly holds a dull point. The latest fashions are gorgeous. I must admit, I can hardly contain my craving to purchase a new gown. I miss you terribly. You would have loved the museum in the village. It holds many things from the sea, as well as maps! My father is at a dinner, held by the governor of the city we are staying in. He has taken to this lifestyle very well. It shall be hard to separate him from it all. When I return, I have a few gifts I purchased. Don't be cross with me, but I did spend a bit of money. I also acquired us a companion. He's very darling. His name is Boots and he's all orange with black feet. He's a cat, if you're wondering. I found him near the docks, while inspecting a few of London's ships. They are beautiful. Oh, William! I can hardly wait to see you, but I don't wish for this trip to end either. I love you very much and pray you are doing well on my absence. I love you.  
  
Sincerely,  
  
Elizabeth  
  
William stared quietly at the letter; craving to re-read it. The flutter of his heart was infatuating. He folded it up slowly, stuffing it nicely back in the envelope. When it was secured in the belt of his pants, he turned himself towards the docks of Port Royal and sighed. How was he to correct all of this? Jack, now shoved in the gallows with alcohol crawling out his ears, was to be hung any day. And that poor child, how could he ever forgive himself? He should have let her go! He hovered there for a few moments, sighing miserably. The thrill of Elizabeth's letter was fading and his overwhelming guilt was taking over . . . He had to come up with something. 


	7. Meetings of Doubt

The sudden squeal of the metal gate awoke a couple of the prisoners, including Abigail. The morning breeze was suddenly felt through the barred windows and the bright rays of the sun soaked into the cells, illuminating the brick floors. To exhausted to care, Abigail closed her eyes again and brought her hands up over her face, sighing miserably. She could hear the faint mumbling and scuffing of boots nearby, but she didn't let that bother her. That was until the metal gate slammed against its hinges and scared her awake. Reluctantly, she pushed herself up into a sitting position and she rubbed at her puffy eyes, brushing her hair from her face. When her vision finally did focus, and she was able to look around without blinking, she saw someone in her cell. Curious, she sunk back against the wall and folded her arms over her chest, observing the individual quietly. He was tall and dark. It was hard to tell if his skin was natural or if he was just dirty. He held a roguish appearance and his hair was long, braided and adorned with beads and other ornaments. He'd been stripped of his hat, trench-coat and other possessions, just like herself and she could make them out next to her own on the hooks. Much to her fortune, he hadn't noticed her yet. Instead, he was busy peering through the bars at the guards, and feeling around the hinges for a weakness it seemed. Infact, it was almost as if he'd been here before.  
  
After what seemed like an eternity, he spun around, brows furrowed feverishly and lips curled into a great frown. With a clear view of his face, she could see his rat-tail goatee and his mustache that covered his upper lip, which curled at each end. When he finally caught sight of her, he blinked a couple times, raised his hands and pointed an accusing finger at her. Before either of them said a word, the individual spun around and slithered back to the metal gate he'd entered. Catching a guard by the sleeve, he spoke in a rather slurred, yet commanding tone. Abigail got the impression that he spoke often in that tone.  
  
"There seems to be some kind of mistake, aye... I don't remember requesting a cell-mate, mate."  
  
His last word was uncertain, but he stood up straight as the guard peeked into the cell. For a moment, it was like the guard couldn't see her...but the moment went by fast and he only shrugged, tore his sleeve from the man's grasp and stalked away. Shot down and rather disappointed, the individual turned around and glanced at Abigail again, hands hovering above his waist. He didn't say anything. He observed her for along time, leaving the young girl both uncomfortable and angry. When he did finally speak, she was rather unhappy that she'd eventually have to respond.  
  
"Well then Lass, seeing as we're stuck in this godforsaken hole of dust and dirt, might as well get to know each other, aye? What say you to that?"  
  
From the utterly grumpy expression he received, he raised his brows a bit and approached her. She didn't budge, and remained in her slumped back, arms-crossed position. Certain she wouldn't bolt, or slap him in the face, he sunk down on the dusty, hay-covered floor in front of her.  
  
"Right then, I'll start, seeing as you refuse." He raised a brow at her, an obvious attempt to give her another change and continued.  
  
"I am Captain Jack Sparrow...and- "  
  
"No you're not."  
  
Jack raised a brow. How dare this impotent little mouse deny him his name! He narrowed his eyes suddenly and leaned forward, staring at her intently. Though he knew exactly what he'd like to say, he was so flabbergasted by her comeback, that he sat silent until she continued.  
  
"Jack Spar- "  
  
"Captain, Captain Jack Sparrow, if you please."  
  
She shot him a glare and continued.  
  
"The Captain of the Black Pearl is the greatest pirate in the entire world. I don't expect he'd ever by caught by the marines of Port Royal and if he ever WAS caught, I doubt he'd be wasting his time talking to me. He'd be working on a plan to get himself out and back into the ocean where he belongs."  
  
Jack smiled, accepting these wonderful things she said about him unknowingly. He didn't linger long, and pushed himself to his feet only seconds after she'd finished speaking. As he stood, he spoke.  
  
"By harpies- you're right."  
  
As he slid towards the end of the bench and clambered up onto it's surface to peer through the window, he turned momentarily to the girl and inquired quietly.  
  
'What's your name, love?'  
  
'Abigail Ocean...'  
  
"An interesting one, might I add. Now, if you're finished sitting down, perhaps you can help me get out of here."  
  
Abigail lingered for a moment and frowned. Finally, she did give in and pushed her tired little body up on her feet. She slid towards the bars once again and began feeling around the hinges. She didn't hear the footsteps that were quickly descending the stair-steps, however. 


End file.
